


Not a Fool

by macerrs



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-08
Updated: 2014-02-08
Packaged: 2018-01-11 15:27:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1174700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macerrs/pseuds/macerrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Aramis always thought that having to check on his needlework was a good excuse to see Porthos shirtless."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not a Fool

"Why am I here again?" Porthos muttered. It was early morning or late night, depending on how you looked at it. But from where Porthos was sitting, his feet planted firmly on the ground with his head between his knees, trying to quell the pounding sensation in his head, it was too fucking tedious to even think about. To even raise the question was to invoke the upturned wry smile of his bedmate.

Aramis stretched his arms out and rested one hand on Porthos' back. "Feeling poorly again?"

"Should have stayed on my own."

"Don't be absurd," Aramis laughed softly. Porthos could feel the warmth of his hand. "Your wound needs washing and looking after. Last time I saw your lodgings, it was covered in absolute filth. Do you even own soap to wash yourself?

Porthos turned his head to the side, not looking at Aramis but speaking in his direction. He said sharply, "I know of soap. I'm not a fool."

“I never said you were a fool, Porthos.” Aramis’ voice was even softer now. “Come, let me see how it’s healing.”

He leaned back against Aramis’ steady hand. “Now?”

“Are we doing anything better?”

So Porthos shrugged off his tunic, dropping it on the bed. He felt Aramis move behind him, and then felt a light touch on his shoulder. He felt, rather than saw, Aramis smile.

“It’s healing well.”

Porthos turned his head to face Aramis’ now and said, “All thanks to you.” Aramis grinned in response.

“If you weren’t so injury-prone, Porthos, I would never have become this skilled.” Porthos felt Aramis’ hand travel slowly across and down his back, stopping periodically to muse out loud on each scar.

Porthos snorted. “Your damn fine needlework. You could make dresses for the finest ladies in your spare time, Aramis. You’d have extra coin and more women if you did.”

Aramis was quiet.

Porthos could sense Aramis’ gaze on him, his hand somehow finding its way to rest on Porthos’ other, uninjured shoulder. He felt warm breath close to his face, a voice low and uncharacteristically deep. “I don’t always need more women, friend.”

Porthos felt his chest seize, as if he was ill in some other manner, not so easily explainable, but he managed to mutter, in a voice huskier than usual. “We should go to bed. It’s late. Or early. I can’t tell which.”

He felt Aramis move back a little and say, “If you need me, I’m here.”

Then the lights went out, Aramis on one side of the bed and Porthos on the other.


End file.
